


Pearls, Bedeviled

by spookyawards_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Bangkok (X-Files), Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-13
Updated: 2003-10-13
Packaged: 2019-04-27 07:15:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14420316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyawards_archivist/pseuds/spookyawards_archivist
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atSpooky Awards, and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2018. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address onSpookyAwards' collection profile.





	Pearls, Bedeviled

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Spooky Awards](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Spooky_Awards), and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2018. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [SpookyAwards' collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/spookyawards/profile).

 

Pearls, Bedeviled

## Pearls, Bedeviled

### by waterfall
    
    
         TITLE:    Pearls, Bedeviled  
         AUTHOR:   waterfall 
         CLASS:    V
         RATING:   PG
         SPOILERS: none, though one should keep in mind that I place
         this story a few years after The Truth (series ender). 
         DISCLAIMER:  The characters contained in this story are the
         creative property of FOX Broadcasting and 1013 Productions
         and are used without permission.
         Written for Pollyanna's Red Shirt Lyric Wheel.  Notes follow
         the story.
    

* * *

Miss Covarrubias - and it is _always_ Miss Covarrubias, I would never refer to her as Marita, even privately - and I enter the Pan Pacific, attendants scrambling to open the doors for us and to see to the luggage. When a limousine pulls up to the front door - and Miss Covarrubias always travels in Bangkok by limousine - the staff is very attentive to any angel who may drop a few American dollars into their pockets. 

But I know this woman and do not share their assessment. My attentiveness to her is out of a healthy respect for fear. I have seen evidence over the years of the brunt of her displeasure and the full force of her fury. Though I doubt that I should ever give her cause to question my loyalty, people have died or disappeared based upon a phone call or two from her private line. It is as though I can feel the devil walking next to me as I carry both her briefcase and my own up to the front desk to check in for the evening. 

I wait in the hotel bar while others see her luggage to her rooms. We have done enough business together over the years for me to know her routine, of wishing to put away her own wardrobe herself first thing, before engaging in business matters. Occasionally, I will also take rooms near her suite, especially if her visit involves numerous and oftentimes lengthy meetings. It is just more convenient for all concerned if I do not have to make her wait for me to leave the Embassy offices. 

After an appropriate amount of time passes, I take the lift up to her floor. She answers her door and invites me in, cautioning me to remain silent. She returns to her phone call in the other room, and I hear only hushed tones as I feign interest in the view of the city from her suite. In a few moments, she joins me, all smiles and hungry to sample the local cuisine. 

During our supper, she wants to know of the news in the city. I recount all of the recent gossip, of some new local flavor and a bit of the political as well. I sense that she is only biding her time until a meeting with the real reason for her journey, perhaps with the person at the other end of the earlier phone call. I do not mind the slight. Although I allow myself the occasional fantasy involving this striking woman, I do not delude myself that she comes to me for assistance with any other intention than to get a job done. 

She may or may not take me into her confidence on the matter at hand; if she needs a favor, she need only ask and it will be granted. My knowledge of Russian dialects used to be better than hers. Back when she was attached to the United Nations, I would on occasion act as a go-between in getting messages and information - as well as people - in and out of Russia on her behalf. Being dependable and discreet worked in my favor in gaining her attention and keeping it; you can not be too careful with your company when national security - or your own life - is at stake. 

Before saying good night, I offer her the use of my car and driver for the duration of her stay, but she declines. Her appointments are not yet finalized and she would hate to have to call for him at the last moment, she apologizes. I understand immediately the secrecy of her current task - she would never give a second thought to inconveniencing others, let alone my driver, unless she needed a graceful excuse. She interrupts my ruminations by asking if she may call on these services to take her to the airport at the conclusion of her meetings, and I agree to personally accompany her. I always do. It is quite expedient to have an Embassy official as an escort through Customs, especially if one needs to make a quick and prudent exit. 

* * *

She is still in Bangkok at the end of the week. Not since supper when she first arrived have I heard from or about her these past five days. Unusual that no one else in the office has mentioned her presence in the city. Our town is very like another in the Far East - a Westerner is quickly spotted and noted. Unless, of course, she did not want her presence known. 

I receive word that she is scheduled to fly back to New York that afternoon. I arrange for her transportation to the airport and wait for her in the lobby of the hotel. The concierge desk is all excited with rumours of the release of a British physician, kidnapped by separatists several weeks ago. Of course, the Embassy has been inundated with requests for information and intervention concerning this matter all week; it was one of the reasons why I was grateful that Miss Covarrubias had her own affairs to attend to as I had little time to devote to her entertainment. I believe that I had mentioned this incident to her at supper. . . 

The doors open, and she enters the lobby, followed by the attendants with her luggage. I am not certain as to what makes me recall at that exact moment an image of her from earlier in the week while I was in her hotel suite. She was still on the phone, her manicured fingers twisting the ever-present pearl necklace about her throat. 

That gesture then reminds me of the first time I was introduced to Miss Covarrubias. It was in our London offices, and I remember how young and beautiful she looked compared to most of the female staff. She was wearing a pearl necklace, the very same one she was fingering in my recollection. I would later hear stories as to just how she had come into possession of such an expensive item - the kind of stories that follow a young, beautiful woman who plays at this level. Though I would never indulge in such gossip, I came to much the same conclusion: The world may be her oyster, but those pearls are not free. 

As I said, I am not certain as to what brought up the matter. She is now by my side, and I escort her to the waiting limousine. I circle around the back of the vehicle as she waits for my driver to open the door, and I look across the roof of the vehicle at her. We momentarily make eye contact before she maneuvers into her seat. She seems tired but she also has that bearing of confidence - as if along with her discomfort, she has attained the goal she sought in coming to Bangkok. 

I also notice that she is not wearing her pearl necklace. 

It could all be coincidence that the activity level of the rhetoric surrounding the kidnapping escalated just as Miss Covarrubias entered the city and also coincidence that her business here apparently involved some late night - and secretive - sessions. And now she was leaving just as the victim was being released after a payment of what is rumoured as a hefty ransom. 

It could just be considered a coincidence. 

I open the door and take my place. I wonder if, in time -if my suspicions prove correct - she will acknowledge her role in this affair. I tend to think not but, for right now, I can feel an angel sliding up to me. 

* * *

Notes: Written for Pollyanna's most recent lyric wheel with the theme of The Red Shirt POV - to write of an XF character through the eyes of someone seen but not heard on the show. Lyrics were "One Night in Bangkok", composed and written by Benny Anderson, Tim Rice, and Bjorn Ulvaeus, from the musical "Chess", and provided by Finn. Wheel Rules dictate that at least one line from the set of lyrics be used in the story. 

I cheated somewhat in that I could not find a recorded instance of Marita Covarrubias actually wearing a pearl necklace, but it was a good plot device. I also made my `Red Shirt' as someone who was never seen - the person Marita called in the episode Tunguska to get the information on the diplomatic pouch. 

* * *

  
  


#### If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to waterfall


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